There is a poem brewing inside of me

Like a storm.

“Who are you?”

The mirror asks,

Yet I cannot reply.

Where does one draw the line

Between the rolling thunder

And the lightning that preceded it?

The speed of time is not a constant,

Nor can you solve the calculus of life without

Adding up the joys, taking away the sorrows,

And dividing by how much space was left between

Zeno’s paradoxes, and the martyrdom of St. Sebastian,

Who died not from the entrance wounds,

But rather of tripping and falling

Over the Knife Edge of the eternity it took

For them to halve, and halve again,

The square root of the distance between the archers

And the martyr, who was glad to be taken more than halfway

Between Heaven and Hell.

“Who are you?”

Persists the mirror.

I answer.

“I am you.”